Scarecrow snapped his scrawny fingers. A split second later, a loud buzzer sounded, triggering two things: first, each of the four bound men on stage moved almost mechanically to their knees. It was clear that this was something they had been trained to do--they did it not quite willingly, but fully aware that disobedience would bring harsh punishment.
As the captives sank to the floor, four uniformed members of the militia marched out onto the stage and took positions directly in front of them. The hooded heroes' faces were at crotch level and they waited silently as the Honest Men slowly unbuttoned their breeches, sliding them toward the floor while leaving their duty belts in place.
"As you can plainly see," Crane intoned, "not all of the hoods allow for oral contact. That is no matter. These four understand now that they must serve their superiors in a number of ways. Sometimes that involves their mouths. Sometimes it does not. For the purposes of today's demonstration, their heads will do just fine."
The Honest Men wore black leather jockstraps emblazened with the initials "HM." At Crane's cue, they pressed the pouches into the hooded faces of their captives. In a choreography of humiliation, they rubbed them up and down, side to side, as the heroes kneeled passively and accepted their fate.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Monday, September 03, 2007
291. The omniscient narrator
The four men stood with their heads bowed. Each was bare-chested and wore dull gray uniform pants. Lacking their more familiar clothing, the best way to tell them apart (other than Robin's mostly hairless torso) was by the hoods pulled over their heads. While each shared a basic color and design--jet black, covering the entire head, no eyes or mouth currently visible--the material and/or certain details varied from one wearer to the next. Robin's was pure spandex, clinging so tightly to his skull that it revealed traces of his hairline and eyebrows. Green Arrow's was a rough cloth, tied in the back. These two were designed without openings of any kind, though the wearer could still see and breathe in a limited way. Both Batman and the Magus had been outfitted with leather hoods--the latter possessed only the tiniest of holes to allow in little pinpricks of air and light, while Batman's featured removable panels to expose or cover the ears, nose, and mouth, all of which were currently snapped shut.
"You are seeing the latest phase of a long and slow process during which their old costumes were removed and their new uniforms introduced," Crane said from the podium. "As soon as they were captured, we removed all their tools and weapons, of course. In the days that followed, we took away one item every three days: gloves, capes, belts, tights, and the like. At your request, they were all unmasked in a dark room, their true faces seen by no one yet, They've been wearing these hoods for almost a month now. The lower half is lifted slightly once a week so that the prisoners may be shaved. Their beard growth is fed to them in that evening's meal as a regular reminder of their defeat."
"Now that's a perverse touch," HateMonger said.
"Thank you, Sir," Crane replied, smiling slightly. "Perversion is my business, after all."
HateMonger's expression darkened. "Your 'business'--one for which you are being paid quite lavishly, I might add--is to break these men, totally and completely. Nothing you've shown me thus far convinces me you've done that."
"Be patient, my good man," Scarecrow said. "The fun is just beginning."
"You are seeing the latest phase of a long and slow process during which their old costumes were removed and their new uniforms introduced," Crane said from the podium. "As soon as they were captured, we removed all their tools and weapons, of course. In the days that followed, we took away one item every three days: gloves, capes, belts, tights, and the like. At your request, they were all unmasked in a dark room, their true faces seen by no one yet, They've been wearing these hoods for almost a month now. The lower half is lifted slightly once a week so that the prisoners may be shaved. Their beard growth is fed to them in that evening's meal as a regular reminder of their defeat."
"Now that's a perverse touch," HateMonger said.
"Thank you, Sir," Crane replied, smiling slightly. "Perversion is my business, after all."
HateMonger's expression darkened. "Your 'business'--one for which you are being paid quite lavishly, I might add--is to break these men, totally and completely. Nothing you've shown me thus far convinces me you've done that."
"Be patient, my good man," Scarecrow said. "The fun is just beginning."
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
290. The omniscient narrator
"Nice digs," mumbled one of the lieutenants as HateMonger's entourage toured Scarecrow's immense laboratory.
"Ought to be," sneered another. "You know who's paying for the joint."
HateMonger himself seemed mildly bored by the endless rooms of test tubes and expensive-looking equipment. "You've shown me all this before, Crane," he said. "Cut to the chase. Bring them out."
"I'm getting to that," Dr. Crane hissed, audibly upset by his employer's tone. "Here, take a seat in the grand ampitheater."
The uniformed group--eight men in all--were ushered to a row of seats an enormous lecture hall.
The lights went down. Crane stood at a podium on the edge of the stage, illuminated by a small reading light. He made a show of clearing his throat and sipping from a complicated-looking bottle of water. "Ladies and gentlemen," he started to say--then caught himself. There were no "ladies" here, and arguably no "gentlemen" either. His audience was the eight highest ranking members of the Honest Men. They looked breathtaking in their uniforms, and Crane had fantasized about at least five of them during the long lonely nights he'd spent engrossed in his work lately.
"It is my honor to present to you the fruits of my labor: four former adversaries of ours, four men who once posed a serious threat to this organiztion, now effectively neutralized once and for all. Behold--"
As he said their names, individual spotlights switched on, bathing each captive in harsh white light as they stood, hooded and bound, on four separate pedestals.
"Green Arrow."
"The Magus."
"Robin."
"And, last and quite possibly now the least.... The Batman!"
"Ought to be," sneered another. "You know who's paying for the joint."
HateMonger himself seemed mildly bored by the endless rooms of test tubes and expensive-looking equipment. "You've shown me all this before, Crane," he said. "Cut to the chase. Bring them out."
"I'm getting to that," Dr. Crane hissed, audibly upset by his employer's tone. "Here, take a seat in the grand ampitheater."
The uniformed group--eight men in all--were ushered to a row of seats an enormous lecture hall.
The lights went down. Crane stood at a podium on the edge of the stage, illuminated by a small reading light. He made a show of clearing his throat and sipping from a complicated-looking bottle of water. "Ladies and gentlemen," he started to say--then caught himself. There were no "ladies" here, and arguably no "gentlemen" either. His audience was the eight highest ranking members of the Honest Men. They looked breathtaking in their uniforms, and Crane had fantasized about at least five of them during the long lonely nights he'd spent engrossed in his work lately.
"It is my honor to present to you the fruits of my labor: four former adversaries of ours, four men who once posed a serious threat to this organiztion, now effectively neutralized once and for all. Behold--"
As he said their names, individual spotlights switched on, bathing each captive in harsh white light as they stood, hooded and bound, on four separate pedestals.
"Green Arrow."
"The Magus."
"Robin."
"And, last and quite possibly now the least.... The Batman!"
Monday, August 20, 2007
289. Jonathan Crane
History will ask, as it has every right to do, how I pulled it off. The truth is, in retrospect, it was all quite simple. Most things are when you have an actual army at your disposal.
HateMonger will surely tell the world that he sought me out. He does love to take credit for things, doesn't he? But I remember something rather different: in my search for funding for my research, it was I who first approached him almost a year ago. Like so many others, he would have nothing to do with me--at first. But in time (aided by a rather effective demonstration of one of my lesser formulae) he came around, and within a month he and his organization had become the benefactors I so desperately needed.
It did not hurt that we shared a common enemy.
I wanted the vigilante who had killed my mentor. HM wanted a certain pest controlled. We both got what we wanted.
As I have said, the actual procedure was easy--much more so than anyone could have predicted. I would like to assume full responsibility for the facility with which four formidable opponents fell prey to my talents, but I must confess that I saw weaknesses in their group early on--weaknesses I of course exploited fully.
I created situations which further isolated the men from each other. Once one of them had fallen to me, I used him as bait to lure the next, and so on. I had studied each man from afar for weeks before I confronted any of them directly, so I knew exactly where his vulnerabilities--his fears--lay. Dr. Tanhoger's notes, rescued from the fire, were a tremendous help for the main two; the others were easy enough to unpeel.
And unpeel them I have. No scientist could ever have hoped for a more ideal situation: four subjects upon which to experiment for months at a time. Human-sized lab rats to be broken and rebuilt according to my whim (and, of course, HateMonger's rather more exacting instructions). They resisted at first, which was tiresome, but in time they each caved in, more or less simultaneously. Once again, with two of them, I had the benefit of Dr. Tanhoger's earlier meticulous research; I knew the precise triggers that would provoke a relapse to their earlier state of surrender. Here again, I used my success with those two to prove to the remaining pair that it was pointless to resist the inevitable.
I must wrap up these notes and make a few final preparations for HM's next visit. While he has toured my facilities on several occasions since the initial captures, only now am I ready to unveil the results of my months of work on the four.
I am quite certain that my benefactor will be pleasantly surprised by what is beginning to take shape.
HateMonger will surely tell the world that he sought me out. He does love to take credit for things, doesn't he? But I remember something rather different: in my search for funding for my research, it was I who first approached him almost a year ago. Like so many others, he would have nothing to do with me--at first. But in time (aided by a rather effective demonstration of one of my lesser formulae) he came around, and within a month he and his organization had become the benefactors I so desperately needed.
It did not hurt that we shared a common enemy.
I wanted the vigilante who had killed my mentor. HM wanted a certain pest controlled. We both got what we wanted.
As I have said, the actual procedure was easy--much more so than anyone could have predicted. I would like to assume full responsibility for the facility with which four formidable opponents fell prey to my talents, but I must confess that I saw weaknesses in their group early on--weaknesses I of course exploited fully.
I created situations which further isolated the men from each other. Once one of them had fallen to me, I used him as bait to lure the next, and so on. I had studied each man from afar for weeks before I confronted any of them directly, so I knew exactly where his vulnerabilities--his fears--lay. Dr. Tanhoger's notes, rescued from the fire, were a tremendous help for the main two; the others were easy enough to unpeel.
And unpeel them I have. No scientist could ever have hoped for a more ideal situation: four subjects upon which to experiment for months at a time. Human-sized lab rats to be broken and rebuilt according to my whim (and, of course, HateMonger's rather more exacting instructions). They resisted at first, which was tiresome, but in time they each caved in, more or less simultaneously. Once again, with two of them, I had the benefit of Dr. Tanhoger's earlier meticulous research; I knew the precise triggers that would provoke a relapse to their earlier state of surrender. Here again, I used my success with those two to prove to the remaining pair that it was pointless to resist the inevitable.
I must wrap up these notes and make a few final preparations for HM's next visit. While he has toured my facilities on several occasions since the initial captures, only now am I ready to unveil the results of my months of work on the four.
I am quite certain that my benefactor will be pleasantly surprised by what is beginning to take shape.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
288. THE GOTHAM GAZETTE IN EXILE
CITY FORSAKEN--BUT WE MUST NOT GIVE UP HOPE
By Thomas Drury
Editor
Welcome to the inaugural edition of The Gotham Gazette in Exile. It may be humble--existing only in blog and photocopied form for now--but at the moment this is the only lasting legacy of one of the country's oldest and most respected newspapers. In the spirit of the New Resistance, we pledge to preserve that legacy and uphold freedom of the press with every power we can marshal.
As local readers are no doubt aware, the offices of the Gazette are no more, the victim of a bombing two months ago that not only destroyed the building but killed the publisher, editor-in-chief, and much of the staff. There has never been any question that this attack--quickly followed by similar bombings of all three local television stations and Police Headquarters--was the work of the so-called "Honest Men," the neo-Nazi organization that has effectively seized control of the city. The man known only as HateMonger now effectively rules Gotham, his every command enforced by a paramilitary organization of unknown size and scope, assisted by the latest costumed criminal to emerge in a town overrun by them: the Scarecrow, wielding the arsenal of psychoactive substances that have brought so many of the area's citizens to their knees.
The only questions that remain, in fact, are how all of this could have happened--a major American city under the iron grip of a self-styled citizens' militia--and why no one has come to our aid.
The silence of the federal government and national media has been alarming and disheartening, to say the least. While it is likely that no one who has directly witnessed the devastation of Gotham can understand just how dire the situation is, there is simply no way that outsiders could be unaware that something serious is going on here. Yet we have heard nothing from the President, the National Guard, the Army Corps of Engineers, the 24-hour news networks, or anyone else.
On the local front, it has been more than eight months since the last reported sightings of the "Bat-Man" and the allies who at that point appeared to be working with him. We can only assume the worst: either they have been slain or--unthinkable though the prospect may be--they have simply given up the fight and abandoned Gotham at its greatest hour of need.
The Gazette in Exile vows to provide any and all news we can to the citizens of Gotham City for as long as we have access to equipment. The stakes are simply too high to do otherwise. We can no longer look to saviors from inside or outside the city limits to bail us out. It is up to each and every one of us, working alone and in coalition, to save ourselves.
To be blunt, we have no other options left.
By Thomas Drury
Editor
Welcome to the inaugural edition of The Gotham Gazette in Exile. It may be humble--existing only in blog and photocopied form for now--but at the moment this is the only lasting legacy of one of the country's oldest and most respected newspapers. In the spirit of the New Resistance, we pledge to preserve that legacy and uphold freedom of the press with every power we can marshal.
As local readers are no doubt aware, the offices of the Gazette are no more, the victim of a bombing two months ago that not only destroyed the building but killed the publisher, editor-in-chief, and much of the staff. There has never been any question that this attack--quickly followed by similar bombings of all three local television stations and Police Headquarters--was the work of the so-called "Honest Men," the neo-Nazi organization that has effectively seized control of the city. The man known only as HateMonger now effectively rules Gotham, his every command enforced by a paramilitary organization of unknown size and scope, assisted by the latest costumed criminal to emerge in a town overrun by them: the Scarecrow, wielding the arsenal of psychoactive substances that have brought so many of the area's citizens to their knees.
The only questions that remain, in fact, are how all of this could have happened--a major American city under the iron grip of a self-styled citizens' militia--and why no one has come to our aid.
The silence of the federal government and national media has been alarming and disheartening, to say the least. While it is likely that no one who has directly witnessed the devastation of Gotham can understand just how dire the situation is, there is simply no way that outsiders could be unaware that something serious is going on here. Yet we have heard nothing from the President, the National Guard, the Army Corps of Engineers, the 24-hour news networks, or anyone else.
On the local front, it has been more than eight months since the last reported sightings of the "Bat-Man" and the allies who at that point appeared to be working with him. We can only assume the worst: either they have been slain or--unthinkable though the prospect may be--they have simply given up the fight and abandoned Gotham at its greatest hour of need.
The Gazette in Exile vows to provide any and all news we can to the citizens of Gotham City for as long as we have access to equipment. The stakes are simply too high to do otherwise. We can no longer look to saviors from inside or outside the city limits to bail us out. It is up to each and every one of us, working alone and in coalition, to save ourselves.
To be blunt, we have no other options left.
Monday, December 11, 2006
287. THE GOTHAM GAZETTE
"CAPED CRUSADER" MAY HAVE COMPANY
By Thomas Drury
Staff Reporter
Although the masked vigilante "The Bat-Man" is still officially considered an urban legend by both the police and the publisher of this newspaper, there is mounting evidence that someone is once again waging a personal war on crime in and around Gotham City--and it now appears he is no longer working alone.
In the first 10 days of December, police have discovered 26 alleged criminals bound and waiting for arrest in locations throughout the city and its suburbs, each bearing a small yellow sheet of paper emblazoned with the image of a bat.
"These aren't just sightings or rumors," police investigator Sandra Meyerson observed. "There is hard evidence this time. Under interrogation, some of the captured suspects--most of them clearly terrified--describe being overtaken by a large, powerful man wearing a disguise."
Tellingly, the individual descriptions do not match in every detail. Some of the abducted speak of a man who sounds a great deal like previous accounts of the Bat-Man, but several do not. There are reports of figures of various ages and builds wearing capes, capeless outfits, costumes that are green, black, or multi-colored, and so on; the only common thread appears to be that the mysterious character is male and wears a mask.
As a result, speculation within the GCPD suggests that rather than a lone "Bat-Man," there may be an organized coalition behnd the current wave of activity. "That would explain how the same person could be popping up in so many different parts of the region on a single day," Officer Meyerson noted. "There's almost no way a single individual, no matter how effective or resourceful, could be responsible for this many citizen arrests in this short a period of time."
Whether there is one face or many behind the mask, not everyone in the police department is happy with the extra help. "This [expletive] has got to stop," said one GCPD official who spoke on condition of anonymity. "This guy, or this group, or whatever, is making us look like we don't know how to do our job."
By Thomas Drury
Staff Reporter
Although the masked vigilante "The Bat-Man" is still officially considered an urban legend by both the police and the publisher of this newspaper, there is mounting evidence that someone is once again waging a personal war on crime in and around Gotham City--and it now appears he is no longer working alone.
In the first 10 days of December, police have discovered 26 alleged criminals bound and waiting for arrest in locations throughout the city and its suburbs, each bearing a small yellow sheet of paper emblazoned with the image of a bat.
"These aren't just sightings or rumors," police investigator Sandra Meyerson observed. "There is hard evidence this time. Under interrogation, some of the captured suspects--most of them clearly terrified--describe being overtaken by a large, powerful man wearing a disguise."
Tellingly, the individual descriptions do not match in every detail. Some of the abducted speak of a man who sounds a great deal like previous accounts of the Bat-Man, but several do not. There are reports of figures of various ages and builds wearing capes, capeless outfits, costumes that are green, black, or multi-colored, and so on; the only common thread appears to be that the mysterious character is male and wears a mask.
As a result, speculation within the GCPD suggests that rather than a lone "Bat-Man," there may be an organized coalition behnd the current wave of activity. "That would explain how the same person could be popping up in so many different parts of the region on a single day," Officer Meyerson noted. "There's almost no way a single individual, no matter how effective or resourceful, could be responsible for this many citizen arrests in this short a period of time."
Whether there is one face or many behind the mask, not everyone in the police department is happy with the extra help. "This [expletive] has got to stop," said one GCPD official who spoke on condition of anonymity. "This guy, or this group, or whatever, is making us look like we don't know how to do our job."
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
286. Dick Grayson
Can I just say that Carl Gustavus, or the Magus, or whatever the fuck he wants us to call him now, is a smug, pretentious, self-centered obstructionist bully who cannot be relied upon to do anything except screw things up? The man disappears for DAYS at a time, typically when we need him most. He's the complete opposite of everything I stand for. Everything all the rest of us stand for, or so I thought.
HE. IS. BAD. NEWS.
So why the hell does Bruce seem to find him so goddam fascinating? Even Ollie has been known to side with him every now and then during tactical meetings, or at least want to stare at him for hours at a time when no one else is looking. OK, so he is pretty fucking hot, I admit it. But looks aren't everything--the man is a complete and total son of a BITCH! Why does no one else see this?!
I think there's more to his story than he's letting on. I know our main focus these days is HM, but I'm going to get to the bottom of this. The man is trouble. He's poison to our operation.
Other than that little quibble (which I should really be limiting to my alter ego, but I'm just pissed off right now I can't even think straight), things are going well. Janice and I got together, and that went okay even though I was forced to be incredibly evasive. It was getting really dicey there, so in a flash of inspiration I kinda sorta led her to believe I'd had a nervous breakdown, and that explained all sorts of things she was asking questions about: my leaving town, my not contacting her for months at a time, these strange men I've been spending time with and whose names I kept dropping by accident, etc., etc. I did throw in a part about going down south to help out after Katrina, which of course is true, just to cover my tracks.
I am a devious Boy Wonder, I am...
HE. IS. BAD. NEWS.
So why the hell does Bruce seem to find him so goddam fascinating? Even Ollie has been known to side with him every now and then during tactical meetings, or at least want to stare at him for hours at a time when no one else is looking. OK, so he is pretty fucking hot, I admit it. But looks aren't everything--the man is a complete and total son of a BITCH! Why does no one else see this?!
I think there's more to his story than he's letting on. I know our main focus these days is HM, but I'm going to get to the bottom of this. The man is trouble. He's poison to our operation.
Other than that little quibble (which I should really be limiting to my alter ego, but I'm just pissed off right now I can't even think straight), things are going well. Janice and I got together, and that went okay even though I was forced to be incredibly evasive. It was getting really dicey there, so in a flash of inspiration I kinda sorta led her to believe I'd had a nervous breakdown, and that explained all sorts of things she was asking questions about: my leaving town, my not contacting her for months at a time, these strange men I've been spending time with and whose names I kept dropping by accident, etc., etc. I did throw in a part about going down south to help out after Katrina, which of course is true, just to cover my tracks.
I am a devious Boy Wonder, I am...
Sunday, November 26, 2006
285. Robin
The meeting went well--as well as could be expected under the circumstances. I must say, it felt great to sit once more in the Batcave, this time with Batman on one side of me and Green Arrow to the other, all of us ready to work together against a common enemy. (I should probably admit I got more than a little turned on under the circumstances. I tried to concentrate on B's plan of attack instead of fantasizing about being the meat in a Bat/Arrow sandwich, but it wasn't easy.)
There was a certain amount of tension and suspicion, maybe some healthy competition, just beneath the surface between B and O, but they remained professional throughout it all. I know both of them very well at this point (to put it mildly), and I can understand why they each feel the way they do, but i also know they're ultimately on the same side, even if they're not completely convinced of it themselves just yet. I think once they witness each other's commitment to the job at hand, things will change for the better.
Things did change a bit, not exactly for the better, when Gustavus showed up, 45 minutes late. Only he's not "Gustavus" now--expects us to call him "The Magus." His outfit is pretty similar to the one we saw before--all leather, all black, not a bit of his flesh exposed beyond his eyes and lips. (OK, I admit it's a good look for him. And maybe he would fit nicely into that superhero sandwich--but that doesn't counter the fact that he's a self-obsessed jerk who DOES NOT play well with others.) Everything he said seemed designed to complicate things that had been going perfectly smoothly before he arrived. He tried to get us all to go back to square one in terms of who we are and what we're trying to do; he instantly picked up on the rift between B and O and tried to exploit it; he even questioned the dividing line between right and wrong the rest of us all seem to share, implying that twe were all living a lie and only he possessed the almighty Truth.
Let's face it: I just don't like the guy, and NOT just because he's been fucking the living daylights out of B while I was out of town. But I have to put my personal feelings out of the picture and focus on the battle ahead. Taking down HateMonger and his crew is what I've come back here to do, and that's exactly what I'm going to do, dammit.
There was a certain amount of tension and suspicion, maybe some healthy competition, just beneath the surface between B and O, but they remained professional throughout it all. I know both of them very well at this point (to put it mildly), and I can understand why they each feel the way they do, but i also know they're ultimately on the same side, even if they're not completely convinced of it themselves just yet. I think once they witness each other's commitment to the job at hand, things will change for the better.
Things did change a bit, not exactly for the better, when Gustavus showed up, 45 minutes late. Only he's not "Gustavus" now--expects us to call him "The Magus." His outfit is pretty similar to the one we saw before--all leather, all black, not a bit of his flesh exposed beyond his eyes and lips. (OK, I admit it's a good look for him. And maybe he would fit nicely into that superhero sandwich--but that doesn't counter the fact that he's a self-obsessed jerk who DOES NOT play well with others.) Everything he said seemed designed to complicate things that had been going perfectly smoothly before he arrived. He tried to get us all to go back to square one in terms of who we are and what we're trying to do; he instantly picked up on the rift between B and O and tried to exploit it; he even questioned the dividing line between right and wrong the rest of us all seem to share, implying that twe were all living a lie and only he possessed the almighty Truth.
Let's face it: I just don't like the guy, and NOT just because he's been fucking the living daylights out of B while I was out of town. But I have to put my personal feelings out of the picture and focus on the battle ahead. Taking down HateMonger and his crew is what I've come back here to do, and that's exactly what I'm going to do, dammit.
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
284. Robin
Batman has called a meeting--the two of us, plus Green Arrow, and he's also attempting to track down Gustavus, or whatever the guy is calling himself these days. That last one won't be easy, but that's none of my business.
We're going to map out a plan of attack to take on HM's organization, or at least its Gotham City base. I don't know exactly what B has in mind, but I do know that we are up against an enemy far larger than we've ever faced, and it's going to take every one of us operating at the peak of our abilities to bring it down.
And I've never been more ready to swing into action than I am, right now.
We're going to map out a plan of attack to take on HM's organization, or at least its Gotham City base. I don't know exactly what B has in mind, but I do know that we are up against an enemy far larger than we've ever faced, and it's going to take every one of us operating at the peak of our abilities to bring it down.
And I've never been more ready to swing into action than I am, right now.
Monday, November 20, 2006
283. Batman
HateMonger has escalated his attacks on innocent men and women. It is my duty to protect them.
Robin has matured since we last worked together. His new friend appears to be a worthy ally, despite my misgivings about him.
We can wait no longer. Action must be taken.
Robin has matured since we last worked together. His new friend appears to be a worthy ally, despite my misgivings about him.
We can wait no longer. Action must be taken.
Monday, November 06, 2006
282. Dick
I came back to Gotham four months ago thinking ... I don't know, thinking it would be easier this time, maybe? Thinking everything would be different, that Green Arrow and I would join Batman and his new partner, and together the four of us would take down the mysterious HateMonger's organization and restore order not just to this own city, but to the entire nation, since the group's ideology of hate and fear has spread like a weed throughout one community after another with alarming speed.
Instead, life has been an annoying mix of sheer chaos and utter tedium. I spend far more of it as Dick Grayson than Robin (in fact, I've barely suited up at all since Ollie and I rescued the other two back in June). Instead of investigating crime cartels, I've been scouring the paper for apartments, since it's become quite clear that Wayne Manor is not a healthy place to live these days. Oliver's been doing temp work, and I went crawling back to my old employer offering to accept a huge pay cut if they'd only take me back. (B offered to pay me for Wayne Foundation work as he had before I left town, but it just felt wrong on so many levels I can't even count them all.)
I thought I had left my previous existence forever, but I'm finding out that's not quite the case. In some ways it feels like decades have passed since I left here, but in other ways it seems like I never left. Speaking of which, I ran into Janice on the street a few days ago, after not talking to her for at least a year and a half. Awwwwwwwwwkwaaaaaaard. She pretty much insisted that we get together and compare notes over beer and pizza as soon as possible, and there was no way I could back out of it. She used to be my closest confidant in the world, and now we don't even know each other's phone numbers. I have no idea where to start, since about eighty percent of my activities since we last spoke has been completely off the record. I can't talk about Bruce, probably shouldn't talk about Ollie, have no idea what to say about anything else. "Oh, and remember that shrink I was seeing for a while? Turns out he was an evil mad scientist who brainwashed me and briefly turned me into an archcriminal intent on capturing and caging Batman, who is not an urban legend but a real person and my ex-boyfriend. So, what's new with you?"
Meanwhile, HateMonger is out there amassing an army of untold proportions, and I'm itching to suit up and take him down, but I can't do it alone, and it's painfully clear there's no critical mass of good guys to back me up at the moment.
This ain't no comic book, that's for DAMN sure.
Instead, life has been an annoying mix of sheer chaos and utter tedium. I spend far more of it as Dick Grayson than Robin (in fact, I've barely suited up at all since Ollie and I rescued the other two back in June). Instead of investigating crime cartels, I've been scouring the paper for apartments, since it's become quite clear that Wayne Manor is not a healthy place to live these days. Oliver's been doing temp work, and I went crawling back to my old employer offering to accept a huge pay cut if they'd only take me back. (B offered to pay me for Wayne Foundation work as he had before I left town, but it just felt wrong on so many levels I can't even count them all.)
I thought I had left my previous existence forever, but I'm finding out that's not quite the case. In some ways it feels like decades have passed since I left here, but in other ways it seems like I never left. Speaking of which, I ran into Janice on the street a few days ago, after not talking to her for at least a year and a half. Awwwwwwwwwkwaaaaaaard. She pretty much insisted that we get together and compare notes over beer and pizza as soon as possible, and there was no way I could back out of it. She used to be my closest confidant in the world, and now we don't even know each other's phone numbers. I have no idea where to start, since about eighty percent of my activities since we last spoke has been completely off the record. I can't talk about Bruce, probably shouldn't talk about Ollie, have no idea what to say about anything else. "Oh, and remember that shrink I was seeing for a while? Turns out he was an evil mad scientist who brainwashed me and briefly turned me into an archcriminal intent on capturing and caging Batman, who is not an urban legend but a real person and my ex-boyfriend. So, what's new with you?"
Meanwhile, HateMonger is out there amassing an army of untold proportions, and I'm itching to suit up and take him down, but I can't do it alone, and it's painfully clear there's no critical mass of good guys to back me up at the moment.
This ain't no comic book, that's for DAMN sure.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
281. Jonathan Crane
I am one year old today. Stlll too young to make my presence known, but soon, very soon I will bring honor to the name and work of my mentor--and earn my own new name and work the respect they deserve.
There is no escaping the fact that this has been a year of setbacks. Declaring oneself the master of fear is one thing. Raising the funds to carry out a widespread campaign of terror is another. At the moment I struggle to make ends meet, eking out a living in the lowliest corners of academia. I am an adjunct at a community college: oh, the ignomy! My ideas are simply too radical for the psychological establishment, it has been made clear to me time and time again. I could hardly care less what they think. Dr. Tanhoger, the chairman of my advisory committee, is the one man who understood my true genius, and look what they did to him. Moreover, without him around, mine has been a lonely pathi indeed. But no matter. No point in dwelling on the past. It is the future that matters.
And that future belongs to ...
The Scarecrow.
There is no escaping the fact that this has been a year of setbacks. Declaring oneself the master of fear is one thing. Raising the funds to carry out a widespread campaign of terror is another. At the moment I struggle to make ends meet, eking out a living in the lowliest corners of academia. I am an adjunct at a community college: oh, the ignomy! My ideas are simply too radical for the psychological establishment, it has been made clear to me time and time again. I could hardly care less what they think. Dr. Tanhoger, the chairman of my advisory committee, is the one man who understood my true genius, and look what they did to him. Moreover, without him around, mine has been a lonely pathi indeed. But no matter. No point in dwelling on the past. It is the future that matters.
And that future belongs to ...
The Scarecrow.
Sunday, October 01, 2006
280. Gustavus
I have walked through the valley of the Shadow.
I have tasted the fruit of the tree of knowledge.
I have been to the bottom of the ocean and now I am heading back to the surface for air.
My eyes have been opened.
My purpose is clear once again.
They will call me a madman because they fear what they do not understand.
I will make them see the light
by whatever means it takes.
I have tasted the fruit of the tree of knowledge.
I have been to the bottom of the ocean and now I am heading back to the surface for air.
My eyes have been opened.
My purpose is clear once again.
They will call me a madman because they fear what they do not understand.
I will make them see the light
by whatever means it takes.
Saturday, September 09, 2006
279. Robin
The story so far: this Gustavus character disappeared for, what, two weeks, which nearly drove Bruce even crazier than he already is. Ollie and I offered to help look for him, but I think B could tell it was an awkward situation and maybe our hearts weren't really in it, so that idea didn't get very far.
Anyway, G eventually turned up, offering no explanation whatsoever for his whereabouts and no apology for freaking us all out. B welcomed him back with open arms, and now I haven't seen either of them for the last week.
Meanwhile, one of the worst threats all four of us have ever faced is still out there somewhere, and we haven't made a single useful discovery since I got to Gotham.
This is not the way it used to be around here. Nothing seems right. And the whole first-anniversary-of-Katrina business made me question the validity of my work as Robin all over again. Do I really need a mask and cape to do the work I am meant to do in this lifetime?
I don't know what to say. I guess that's why I haven't been saying anything lately.
Anyway, G eventually turned up, offering no explanation whatsoever for his whereabouts and no apology for freaking us all out. B welcomed him back with open arms, and now I haven't seen either of them for the last week.
Meanwhile, one of the worst threats all four of us have ever faced is still out there somewhere, and we haven't made a single useful discovery since I got to Gotham.
This is not the way it used to be around here. Nothing seems right. And the whole first-anniversary-of-Katrina business made me question the validity of my work as Robin all over again. Do I really need a mask and cape to do the work I am meant to do in this lifetime?
I don't know what to say. I guess that's why I haven't been saying anything lately.
Monday, August 14, 2006
278. Batman
G. is missing.
Just beginning to regain my bearings (once more), and now this.
It has not been a good year.
Just beginning to regain my bearings (once more), and now this.
It has not been a good year.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
277. Robin
I'd heard B ranting about Hugo Strange when I first pulled him out of the hellhole where I found him, but I took it as mere drug-induced delusion. I mean, there's no way Strange could have survived that fire.
But during a search of intercepted messages I found on the Batcomputer while trying to figure out what B was up to before his capture, I came across messages like this one and this one. They'd made no sense to me when I first spotted them, but I am beginning to realize that this HateMonger character must have been a former patient of Strange's--perhaps one he experimented on before dealing with the two of us.
Tests of the drugs in Batman's and Gustavus's bloodstream confirm that there is a link between what HM gave them and what Strange pumped into us.
On a personal note, I have to say I'm concerned about both B and G. It's not like Bruce to take this long to recover from a trauma--or at least it wasn't before he and I met Strange. He's just not himself anymore--by which I mean he's neither of his two old selves. He's not the Bruce Wayne or the Batman I knew and ... loved.
As for G, that guy is just plain bizarre. I can guess what Bruce saw in him--I mean, he's fucking hot, and the thought of the two of them going at it is enough to send me into orbit--but he's a loose cannon. He's so quiet I don't have a clue what's going through his mind at any given moment. I can quite honestly say he scares the shit out of me.
Ollie's worried about both of them, too. But we have more pressing matters to attend to, like shutting down the Honest Men once and for all. We have yet to track down HateMonger himself, but I feel like we're getting closer every day.
I just don't feel GA and I can handle the job without help from those two, so I hope to god they snap out of it soon.
But during a search of intercepted messages I found on the Batcomputer while trying to figure out what B was up to before his capture, I came across messages like this one and this one. They'd made no sense to me when I first spotted them, but I am beginning to realize that this HateMonger character must have been a former patient of Strange's--perhaps one he experimented on before dealing with the two of us.
Tests of the drugs in Batman's and Gustavus's bloodstream confirm that there is a link between what HM gave them and what Strange pumped into us.
On a personal note, I have to say I'm concerned about both B and G. It's not like Bruce to take this long to recover from a trauma--or at least it wasn't before he and I met Strange. He's just not himself anymore--by which I mean he's neither of his two old selves. He's not the Bruce Wayne or the Batman I knew and ... loved.
As for G, that guy is just plain bizarre. I can guess what Bruce saw in him--I mean, he's fucking hot, and the thought of the two of them going at it is enough to send me into orbit--but he's a loose cannon. He's so quiet I don't have a clue what's going through his mind at any given moment. I can quite honestly say he scares the shit out of me.
Ollie's worried about both of them, too. But we have more pressing matters to attend to, like shutting down the Honest Men once and for all. We have yet to track down HateMonger himself, but I feel like we're getting closer every day.
I just don't feel GA and I can handle the job without help from those two, so I hope to god they snap out of it soon.
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
276. Robin
Can more than a month really have passed since my last journal entry? It doesn't seem possible--and yet it's perfectly understandable, given how busy we've all been since GA and I helped Batman and his ... friend escape. They've both been resting and recuperating for the most part, while Oliver and I have been doing some heavy-duty research.
We are certain now that the mysterious "HM"--an individual who goes by the name HateMonger--is the man behind their capture, and so much else that has been happening around the country. In the matter of less than a year, this brand new villain has emerged out of thin air and managed to establish outposts of so-called "Honest Men" mini-militias in countless cities, each of which is organized like a sleeper cell, poised and ready for action. The mind-altering drugs HM used on Batman and Gustavus are clearly quite effective, though I daresay B would not have been nearly as susceptible had he and I not undergone what we did during that earlier dark period--
Good lord--that's it!
How could I not have seen it before?
A major link has been staring us in the face all this time, and we've all been too blind to even notice it.
We are certain now that the mysterious "HM"--an individual who goes by the name HateMonger--is the man behind their capture, and so much else that has been happening around the country. In the matter of less than a year, this brand new villain has emerged out of thin air and managed to establish outposts of so-called "Honest Men" mini-militias in countless cities, each of which is organized like a sleeper cell, poised and ready for action. The mind-altering drugs HM used on Batman and Gustavus are clearly quite effective, though I daresay B would not have been nearly as susceptible had he and I not undergone what we did during that earlier dark period--
Good lord--that's it!
How could I not have seen it before?
A major link has been staring us in the face all this time, and we've all been too blind to even notice it.
Monday, June 26, 2006
275. Robin
B and his new pal were on the floor, both obviously drugged out of their skulls, going at it like there was no tomorrow.
Only the "it" they were engaged in, passionate though it might have been, had nothing to do with affection. No, they were busy trying to tear each other's throats out. Literally.
In my own state of shock, I realized I'd forgotten to check whether anyone else was in the room with them. Fortunately, GA was on the case: nobody on the premises, though he did call my attention to a pair of video cameras aimed at this homocidal horror show.
"You split up those two, I'll dismantle these things," he shouted. Had I been thinking more clearly, I might have deduced he was reluctant to dive in headfirst between the two total strangers on the floor. I'm pretty sure even he could tell this was no lovers' quarrel.
There was blood. There were bruises. It wasn't pretty.
"Bru--Batman!" I screamed. "Snap out of it!"
His eyes were glazed over and drool practically dripped from the side of his battered mouth. He didn't seem to hear or recognize me, and neither did the other guy.
"Hurry up wth those cameras," I barked to GA. "I'm gonna need your help with this. Pronto."
As soon as Ollie was free, I motioned for him to grab hold of the new guy, while I wrapped my arms around B and squeezed as tightly as I could in order to divert him. We struggled to pull the two apart. It wasn't easy and it didn't feel quite right, but we tied the two of them up and gassed 'em.
I figured they would understand in the morning.
Only the "it" they were engaged in, passionate though it might have been, had nothing to do with affection. No, they were busy trying to tear each other's throats out. Literally.
In my own state of shock, I realized I'd forgotten to check whether anyone else was in the room with them. Fortunately, GA was on the case: nobody on the premises, though he did call my attention to a pair of video cameras aimed at this homocidal horror show.
"You split up those two, I'll dismantle these things," he shouted. Had I been thinking more clearly, I might have deduced he was reluctant to dive in headfirst between the two total strangers on the floor. I'm pretty sure even he could tell this was no lovers' quarrel.
There was blood. There were bruises. It wasn't pretty.
"Bru--Batman!" I screamed. "Snap out of it!"
His eyes were glazed over and drool practically dripped from the side of his battered mouth. He didn't seem to hear or recognize me, and neither did the other guy.
"Hurry up wth those cameras," I barked to GA. "I'm gonna need your help with this. Pronto."
As soon as Ollie was free, I motioned for him to grab hold of the new guy, while I wrapped my arms around B and squeezed as tightly as I could in order to divert him. We struggled to pull the two apart. It wasn't easy and it didn't feel quite right, but we tied the two of them up and gassed 'em.
I figured they would understand in the morning.
Saturday, June 24, 2006
274. Robin
I admit I've spent a lot of energy lately imagining how my reunion with Batman and the introductions of our new lovers/partners was going to go. Ever since Ollie and I decided to leave Houston for Gotham, I've had all kinds of scenarios running through my mind: some friendly, some businesslike, even a few particularly hot ones involving a little Bat-on-Arrow action.
But nothing--nothing--could have prepared me for the way it actually went down.
With Alfred's help, I managed to figure out where B. was last seen, then GA located some witnesses who'd seen him and the new guy being abducted in a warehouse. From there it was Detective School 101 (okay, 201), and within a couple of hours GA and I were standing outside a cinderblock office building on that abandoned air force base on the outskirts of town.
We checked the grounds, then entered through an already-broken window in the back. A crashing sound and a couple of loud grunting noises down the hall led us right to the spot. I checked the unmarked door for boobytraps, then opened it.
What I saw next was easily one of the scariest things I've seen in a long, long time.
And I've seen some scary shit in my day.
But nothing--nothing--could have prepared me for the way it actually went down.
With Alfred's help, I managed to figure out where B. was last seen, then GA located some witnesses who'd seen him and the new guy being abducted in a warehouse. From there it was Detective School 101 (okay, 201), and within a couple of hours GA and I were standing outside a cinderblock office building on that abandoned air force base on the outskirts of town.
We checked the grounds, then entered through an already-broken window in the back. A crashing sound and a couple of loud grunting noises down the hall led us right to the spot. I checked the unmarked door for boobytraps, then opened it.
What I saw next was easily one of the scariest things I've seen in a long, long time.
And I've seen some scary shit in my day.
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
273. The omniscient narrator
Carl kept his eyes shut for a long. long while; it felt like weeks, in fact, though it was impossible to know just how much time had truly passed.
Nothing on earth--no amount of training, no degree of exposure to anything in his past--could have prepared Gustavus for what he saw when he opened them. The vision was too horrific to express in language; it transcended any measure of intensity. He wanted to scream, but he knew that such a feeble gesture could not possibly relieve the agony.
He was aware, too, that beneath the surface shock, he felt nothing. He was numb, inside and out. Could not move, could not think, could barely breathe--
--and yet he was alive. Whatever this was, it was a portent of something yet to come. Something not yet here. Something he would have to face again, perhaps very soon, but not now.
Now there was only one thing on his mind: not a thought so much as a need, a want, a desire ...
You want more, don't you? the voice teased. The fruit of the tree of knowledge.
Gustavus nodded, a crazed look in his eyes.
How badly do you want it?
Gustavus said nothing.
Bad enough to do whatever I say?
He hesitated, then slowly nodded once more. He could not understand what he was going through, but he was growing aware that he was no longer in control of his thoughts and deeds. He did not care; the feeling he'd just experienced--both the intense calm and the sheer, gut-wrenching terror--was so powerful that he could not resist the desire to feel it again, right away.
We are not alone, the voice said. See that man over there?
Gustavus looked over and noticed for the first time that another man, also masked and vaguely familiar, was lying on the other side of the room, evidently in the midst of his own private hell.
You know him?
Gustavus nodded.
He is ... an illusion. Something you have conjured up in your head. I would say he is not real, but that is not quite true. He exists, he lives and breathes, but he is merely a dream. Do you understand what the dream means, Carl?
Gustavus looked puzzled.
I will tell you, the voice continued. He is you, Carl--more precisely, he is the Old You, the one that must be extinguished for the New You to break free. Do you understand what you must do now, Carl? Is the path growing clearer to you?
Gustavus slowly moved his head up and down. He was clearly dazed, but he was working hard to listen and obey.
Do not be afraid, Carl. It must be done. And you must be the one to do it. Destroy him with your bare hands--and let the New You be born!
Nothing on earth--no amount of training, no degree of exposure to anything in his past--could have prepared Gustavus for what he saw when he opened them. The vision was too horrific to express in language; it transcended any measure of intensity. He wanted to scream, but he knew that such a feeble gesture could not possibly relieve the agony.
He was aware, too, that beneath the surface shock, he felt nothing. He was numb, inside and out. Could not move, could not think, could barely breathe--
--and yet he was alive. Whatever this was, it was a portent of something yet to come. Something not yet here. Something he would have to face again, perhaps very soon, but not now.
Now there was only one thing on his mind: not a thought so much as a need, a want, a desire ...
You want more, don't you? the voice teased. The fruit of the tree of knowledge.
Gustavus nodded, a crazed look in his eyes.
How badly do you want it?
Gustavus said nothing.
Bad enough to do whatever I say?
He hesitated, then slowly nodded once more. He could not understand what he was going through, but he was growing aware that he was no longer in control of his thoughts and deeds. He did not care; the feeling he'd just experienced--both the intense calm and the sheer, gut-wrenching terror--was so powerful that he could not resist the desire to feel it again, right away.
We are not alone, the voice said. See that man over there?
Gustavus looked over and noticed for the first time that another man, also masked and vaguely familiar, was lying on the other side of the room, evidently in the midst of his own private hell.
You know him?
Gustavus nodded.
He is ... an illusion. Something you have conjured up in your head. I would say he is not real, but that is not quite true. He exists, he lives and breathes, but he is merely a dream. Do you understand what the dream means, Carl?
Gustavus looked puzzled.
I will tell you, the voice continued. He is you, Carl--more precisely, he is the Old You, the one that must be extinguished for the New You to break free. Do you understand what you must do now, Carl? Is the path growing clearer to you?
Gustavus slowly moved his head up and down. He was clearly dazed, but he was working hard to listen and obey.
Do not be afraid, Carl. It must be done. And you must be the one to do it. Destroy him with your bare hands--and let the New You be born!
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